


my love (let me go again)

by peculiar_mademoiselle



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coma, Fluff and Angst, Loosely inspired by The Big Sick, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiar_mademoiselle/pseuds/peculiar_mademoiselle
Summary: Paul and John meet, date and fall hard. It's just a shame that Paul also happens to fall into a coma.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 44
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

The Borderline was not a classy venue, but it was cheap. Yes, the floors were so sticky that they almost pulled your shoes off with each step. That was part of the charm! And part of the reason that, unlike most other clubs in London, you could still get a double vodka and coke for less than a fiver. Or, if you were John Lennon, you could get it for free by nicking it off your mate/bass player while he fiddled with his amp. 

The Quarrymen (made up of John, Stu, Pete and miscellaneous rotating friends) played the Borderline pretty much every other Tuesday, traipsing around to other venues in the interim. Though John vehemently refused to play any further south than Brixton, after he’d spent a long lonely hour at a windswept bus stop in Lewisham in 2018. If it didn’t have a decent tube connection, he wasn’t interested. So, weird midweek gigs in Soho it was. This Tuesday was just like any other, with Stu griping about something or another, setting up and periodically texting Astrid, who was only twenty feet away, in her usual spot, leaning against the back wall. 

There was a decent crowd in, given that most sane people’s idea of a Tuesday night out involved a Wetherspoon’s, not watching a dodgy local band in a dive that could just about boast one functioning toilet. John couldn’t look at the crowd too closely though. Although anyone would be hard pressed to spot it, he would get sick with nerves before each and every show, and acknowledging the crowd as anything other than _bodies_ and _noise_ increased that sickness tenfold. Rather helpfully, he also literally lacked the ability to look at the crowd too closely, as he went without his granny glasses, because he couldn’t wear them in a club like this without them steaming up. And there was pretty much nothing less cool than looking like he needed mini windscreen wipers on his face. 

The gig was a success, their usual set list of crowd-pleasing covers going over well, no-one threw anything at them, anyway. By the time they’d finished the whole room was so sweaty that it seemed to drip down the walls, as people continued to dance, barely registering the shift from band to DJ. Once his minimal gear was packed up, John turned to Stu, and mimed that he was off for a fag, knowing it was futile to try and shout over the pounding bass. Outside in the smoking area, the air was cold and bracing, John immediately felt the tip of his nose pinken and shuddered as his sweaty wet hair grew frigid in the breeze. He cupped his hands around his cig, in an attempt to keep it alight. 

“John! Hey, John!” a voice called, as a familiar figure sloped towards him. 

“Ivan!” John greeted him, surprised, he hadn’t even clocked that his friend was in that night, he’d been too wrapped up in his own little world. Only after he’d released Ivan from his awkward one-armed hug, did he notice that his friend wasn’t alone. 

Behind him was another young man. He looked to be a few years younger than John himself, though that could have just been the babying effect of the lad’s soft features. He had dark hair that fell in a sweeping fringe across his forehead, stopping just short of big, long-lashed eyes that were blinking owlishly, clearly still adjusting after hours under bright club lights

“Oh, this is a friend from uni, Paul! Paul likes music too, so I figured I’d drag him along,” Ivan smiled as he said this, jovial. 

The baby-faced guy, Paul, seemed to realise that this was his cue and stepped forward. For an embarrassing moment John thought the poor man was going to go for a handshake, like this was a sodding job interview, but he lost confidence half-way through and instead offered an awkward, if slightly endearing, wave.

“Hey! Nice to meet you, I really enjoyed the show,” and though Paul’s words were utterly nondescript, they seemed sincere, and John found himself smiling. 

“Thanks, man. Do you play?” He inquired politely, taking another drag from his cigarette, and trying to exhale somewhere that wasn’t right in this guy’s face. Paul smiled a little wider at the question, clearly happy with the topic, and John couldn’t help but notice the way that his smile lit up his whole face. 

“Yeah, yeah, a bit! A bit of guitar, a bit of piano, you know? And I write too, sometimes, every now and again,” He replied, and John had to suppress his own smirk at the wandering answer, though he was well and truly intrigued now. 

“You write songs?” he said, and Paul’s head snapped up, clearly he was used to receiving only an “Oh cool...did you see the football?” in response to that particular disclosure. The interest John showed had him almost bouncing in his excitement. 

“Yeah, I mean, I always have. They’re probably not any good but it’s fun. And you? Do you write?” John’s mind flashed to his notepads full of struck-out poems, the drawer in his bedroom stuffed with balled up paper. 

“Not really, I sometimes write a bit of naff poetry or whatever. But not songs,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, when in truth he hadn’t been this absorbed in a conversation for a long time, Ivan, bless his heart, had already wandered off muttering about getting another drink. 

“Put a tune to your poetry and you’ve got a song,” Paul said, he was so damned genuine, John would throw up if he wasn’t also very charmed. He just laughed, and leaned in closer, his pulse spiking when he saw Paul’s pupils dilate, a pink tongue darting out to wet plump lips. 

“Well, perhaps you’ll have to show me how to do it, Mr..”

“McCartney,” Paul breathed, suddenly very very close. 

If anyone bothered to ask him later, John honestly couldn’t tell you who made the first move, only that all of sudden he had Paul pressed against the chain link fence of the smoking area, while their mouths moved against each other. His cigarette slipped from his hand and rolled away, forgotten. Paul was a good kisser, despite his nervous facade, and excitement thrummed through John’s veins as he pondered whether that skill would be replicated during other acts. 

When they pulled apart they were grinning like naughty school children, and John reached out to entwine their hands, “So, _Paul McCartney_ , how do you fancy a late night?”

One slightly handsy tube journey later, and John was leading a giggling Paul into his bedroom, his only private place in his shared flat. His room was in a right state, papers littering the floor, alongside empty bottles and unwashed plates. He half-heartedly started kicking them under the bed, but gave up when he realised that unless there was a TARDIS situation going on under there, no way was he going to be able to kick the room clean. 

“I really don’t mind, you know,” Paul said, smirking as he watched John swear under his breath as he attempted to shove a cat decorated plate out of sight. That was all the convincing John needed apparently, for he turned his attention back to the other man pretty quickly, letting the delightful feline-themed crockery stay where it was. 

John wrestled with Paul’s navy blazer, tugging it from his shoulders, “Who the fuck wears a blazer on a night out?” he wondered aloud, and Paul sniggered. 

“Do you insult everyone you bring home?” Paul asked, quirking a well-defined brow. 

“Might do, what’s it to you?” John replied, play-acting blasé, though he couldn’t quite suppress his smirk, and it pulled at the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh, just wondered if I was special, that’s all,” Paul replied, playing along, pressing his lips together to hold back a laugh. He finally wiggled free from the blazer, and threw it over the back of John’s desk chair (ensuring it didn’t join the other detritus on the floor).

John guided him back to the bed, and Paul leant forward to kiss him again, moaning into it as the older man palmed him through his black jeans. They sunk into the mattress together, John’s legs bracketing Paul, not breaking the kiss even as he began to fumble with his own belt buckle. He could feel Paul doing the same. They quickly discarded the rest of their clothes and gazed at each other. Despite his tough exterior, John still flushed hot when he felt Paul’s eyes rake over him, conscious of the paleness of his skin, of the hundreds of freckles that fell across his chest and shoulders. Paul, for his part, was looking at them, but with wonder, wishing he could drop a kiss on each and every one. 

Paul noticed John’s moment of hesitance, and took control. He caught John’s eyes, and slowly and deliberately licked his own right hand, before reaching down to take John’s hard cock into it. John moaned, choking on it, as Paul set to work. He was skillful, and fastidious, and John felt his insides turn to goo. 

“Paul, oh fuck, Paul,” he stammered, hands fisting the sheets either side of Paul’s shoulders, his arms shaking with the effort of remaining upright. 

“Is that good, baby?” Paul all but purred, and his voice went straight to John’s dick. He was so close, and so soon, he moved a little and Paul slowed his rhythm, allowing John to lean down and begin sucking on the other man’s sensitive neck. Paul let out a guttural sound, shifting a little against the sheets, jerking with pleasure when John let his teeth ghost against the soft flesh of his throat. His own cock was hard and insistent between the two of them, and he all but cried out in relief when John finally took him in hand. 

They got each other off fairly quickly, both enjoying the moment when the other completely let go, shaking and swearing against each other’s sweaty shoulders. A hasty towel wipe later and they slumped together, curled up atop John’s appropriately mature Muppet Show bedspread. This was usually the moment where John would be pointedly exclaiming about the time, talking about his flat’s proximity to the nearest station, and professing the brilliance of the night train. Basically doing everything he could, short of writing the words ‘get’ and ‘out’ on his eyelids, Indiana Jones style. But for some reason, he didn’t want to. He wanted this guy to stay. 

Paul clearly had no intention of leaving either, dropping his head onto John’s speckled shoulder. “This was really fun,” he said quietly, smiling up at John, with what John prayed was a faintly hopeful expression. 

“Yeah it was,” John said, returning the smile with a genuinely joyful one of his own. “So, where exactly are you from, Mr McCartney, because I swear I can hear a Mersey twang in there,” he laughed and reached for the water bottle on his bedside table, offering some to Paul. 

It transpired that the two of them grew up twenty minutes from each other, but attended different schools, a fact that had them both gaping. After that initial shock, John felt like the floodgates inside himself had been opened, and suddenly he felt able to expunge everything into the quiet of that dimly lit room, Paul’s warm body pressed against his own. He haltingly and with some awkward humour told Paul about Mimi, and his mother. When he whispered of Julia’s death, Paul didn’t recoil, or start tripping over his sorries in an attempt to heal a wound that would bleed forever. Instead, he squeezed John’s hand and replied in a solemn hushed voice. 

“Mine too. Cancer. I was 14,” John said nothing in response, for what was there to say? They just lay there in silence for a few moments, listening to the other breathe, a steady reminder that they weren’t alone. 

Paul started slightly, his gaze caught by something on John’s bedside table, he reached across him and grabbed at it, crowing triumphantly. “I knew it! I knew you needed glasses!” he said, clutching John’s granny specs in his hand. John pulled a face, causing Paul to laugh out loud, and the sound plucked at something deep in John’s chest.

“How could you possibly know?” he said, haughtily, wishing he could cross his arms but loathe to break the contact between him and Paul. The other man looked at him, _are you kidding me,_ written across his handsome face. 

“Well, you did try and pay for the tube with your library card,” Paul said matter of factly, “And you pointed out that woman’s dog on her knee. It was a fluffy backpack.” He was clearly stifling some giggles. 

“Okay, okay, oh great detective,” John replied sarcastically, jamming his glasses on his face, “Are you happy now?” Paul propped himself up on one arm, and studied John’s face. The glasses only magnified John’s lovely eyes, and relaxed his usually furrowed brow. He leant down slowly and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of John’s aquiline nose. 

“Extremely,” he said softly, before gently removing the glasses and placing them back on the table. “You look great in them. Really.” John’s throat bobbed, unused to such sincerity. Unused to it having such an effect on him anyway. Instead of replying he just shifted, pulling Paul closer with one arm and grabbing a thick knit green blanket with the other. He threw it over them clumsily, but with a quick flail of limbs on both their parts they were soon cozy enough. And cuddling, actually cuddling. John almost couldn’t believe it, but he felt more comfortable than he had in a long time.

After a little while John cleared his throat, glancing down at Paul again. “So, there’s this silly Valentine’s fair thing in Hyde Park for the next few weeks. Would you - I mean I know it’s full of tat and not very classy - but would you fancy going sometime?” he asked, cursing himself for feeling like a shaking 13 year old asking someone to the school disco.

“That’d be cool,” Paul replied, “I love a bit of tat, me. And I’m ace at fairground games,” he bragged lightly, nudging John with his shoulder. Something warm and light spread through John, starting in his heart and spilling down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He could feel himself relaxing into sleep.

“Great, then it’s a date,” he said, in lieu of good night.

***

The fair was absolutely freezing. The muddy ground of Hyde Park had been covered by slippery plastic, and every twenty feet or so there were tiny mounted outdoor heaters, buzzing and glowing red. John and Paul were fully wrapped up though as they walked through the vast fun park, arms brushing. They’d kissed lightly on meeting outside the station, but now were walking in silence, neither seemingly knowing what to say. Or rather, having so much to say that it was all jammed in the bottleneck of their throats. Eventually it was Paul who huffed through his fluffy blue scarf and took control, reaching out to entwine their glove-clad hands. 

“So, what do you want to do first?” Paul asked, and _oh no_ , John thought, he’s one of those people who wants an itinerary for everything. Yet when he looked at Paul’s expectant face, flushed from the chill, he felt fondness well up inside him. His face lit up with a silly grin. 

“I don’t really know. Everything. What do you want to do?” John said. 

Paul looked genuinely thoughtful, casting his eye of the sea of flashing lights, rides and stalls. “Well, we should go on the rides first. I wouldn’t mind a crêpe later on, but I’m not sure it’s a great idea to have it before going on something like that,” he replied, gesturing casually at a huge coaster full of loops.

“Something like _that_?” John yelped, before he could stop himself, and Paul smirked at the ill-disguised panic. Justified panic, in John’s opinion, he didn’t like the thought of being 50 feet above ground on any structure that wasn’t even assembled three days ago, thank you very much.

“Or one of the smaller rides,” Paul conceded, still smirking, though he squeezed John’s hand reassuringly.

They eventually settled on the Waltzers - thrilling, for Paul, at ground level, for John. They slumped together in the cart, knowing that as soon as the ride started gravity would pull Paul pretty much onto John’s lap anyway. For the first minute or so the ride was pleasant, with each spin they lightly bumped shoulders, grinning. Then it sped up, and Paul, it turned out, was a screamer, with every twirl he would involuntarily shriek with excitement in John’s poor ear. They were thoroughly pressed together now, and both shaking with laughter. All John could see was blurring lights as he was pinned to his seat, a screeching Paul clinging to him like a handsy octopus. 

When it eventually stopped they staggered off hand-in-hand, walking like men who had just arrived back on land after a month at sea. John lumbered towards a bench and plonked himself down, dropping his head between his legs and groaning. 

“Oh God, I’m gonna spew up,” he moaned, only half-joking. Paul just hummed in agreement, his own head still spinning. A minute or two passed while they tried to tighten the screws that had come loose in their heads. Eventually John’s stomach felt like it was back in its proper place and he sat up to find Paul looking at him expectantly. 

“Shall we go on that next?” Paul asked, pointing at a giant claw of seats, which was at that moment, suspended upside down.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” John said flatly, but he took Paul’s hand and allowed himself to be dragged into the queue. 

A ride on the Twister (a bouncy spinny thing that John was pretty sure had cracked a rib), the Ghost Train (hilariously bad, made even better by the fact that Paul refused to open his eyes the whole way round) and the Dodgems (Paul now knew why John didn’t drive, the memory of him cackling gleefully after smacking into other people’s cars/the sides/literally every solid object, was emblazoned in his brain) later, they were significantly out of pocket, slightly injured, and having the most fun either of them could remember having in a long time. 

They ended up buying some chocolate filled pancakes, the giddiness they were feeling keeping them from wincing too much when they handed over the extortionate amount of cash. The issue, as they both quickly learnt, was that it was impossible to eat them with any dignity. The sight of the other with a chocolate smeared face had both of them falling apart laughing, while Paul searched his pockets for a tissue. 

Once they were somewhat presentable, John grabbed Paul’s hand once more and pulled him towards one of the many game stalls set up. This one involved numerous partially propped up buckets, which people were (mostly unsuccessfully) attempting to throw bouncy balls into. The whole hut was decorated with huge, colourful and slightly damp teddies. 

“Reckon I’d be alright at this,” John bragged, “I’ve a decent wrist action,” he said with a saucy wink in Paul’s direction, who rolled his eyes even as he smiled. 

“Go on then,” Paul said primly, pushing him towards the counter. John was slightly taken aback to realise that he knew the bored looking guy operating the stall. Klaus had studied art with John years ago and now he...well, John didn’t know. He seemed to do everything. John was half-sure that one day he’d blink up blearily after having heart surgery to find Klaus in a white coat checking his vitals. Klaus certainly knew everything about everyone, his soothing quiet presence made him an ideal people watcher, and his emotional intelligence meant he could read those people like they were a slim paperback novella, the kind you devour at the airport and then immediately lose. 

Klaus greeted him with a quick quirk of the lips, before reciting the same spiel he’d given a hundred times already. Three balls, all three have to make it into and stay in the bucket to win. John smirked, easy peasy. 

He threw all three balls as hard as he could, and gaped as all three balls bounced back at him. Paul was shaking with mirth, his lips pressed together to avoid being _too_ hurtful, but still he clearly found the whole thing hilarious. John harrumphed, crossing his arms, “There was clearly something wrong with my balls,” 

Paul just about died at that. While his _lovely_ date was tittering to himself John caught Klaus’ eye, trying to make himself appear like the pleading Puss in Boots. Klaus sighed, but gently kicked a spot on the bucket with his heel, and mouthed, “Aim here, throw it lightly.” John nodded eagerly and bought another set of balls. 

This time, he gently flicked them at the spot Klaus had pointed out, and they all stayed in. Paul watched, mouth agape, though snapped it shut and began applauding teasingly when John turned to him and pulled a face. 

“That one please, mate,” John said to Klaus, pointing at a colossal light brown teddy, which was clutching a red love heart, the text ‘BE MINE’ stitched across it. The soft toy was so massive it had to be held hitched on the hip like a child to make sure it didn’t trail on the ground. 

He turned to Paul, “For you,” he said, handing over the mammoth bear. Paul flushed, sensing that though the whole gesture was handled jokingly, something about it was very real. He leaned forward to drop a kiss of John’s still sticky cheek, adjusting the teddy under his own arm. They’d only wandered a little ways away from the stall when John couldn’t take it anymore, pulling Paul to him and connecting their mouths. He tasted like chocolate, sweet and warm. They kissed languidly for a while, when Paul pulled away and rested his forehead against John’s. 

“Oh bloody hell,” he moaned, sounding distressed. 

“What? What’s wrong?” John replied, a frisson of panic striking through him. 

“How the fuck am I supposed to get this thing home on the tube?”

***

Paul did manage to get the teddy home in the end, though the people who boarded the train at the stops after he got on were less than impressed to find one of the precious seats had been taken up by a giant stuffed bear. 

The bear heralded the start of many wonderful months of dating, and so Paul was willing to forgive it for that humiliation. He and John had quickly become joined at the hip. A few weeks after they met Paul finally invited him back to the flat he shared with his old school friend George. George was a quiet lad, and gave them their space, usually too preoccupied with his own girlfriend, Pattie, to pay them much mind. 

Paul had taken that opportunity to show John what he meant by playing ‘a bit’ of guitar. He played, and sang, Twenty Flight Rock, and John felt himself fall just a little deeper. 

“That was…” he started, his heart in his throat, shock seeping through him like snowmelt. 

Paul scratched the back of his neck, making to start putting the guitar away, “Well, yeah, it’s not something I do much so…”

John cut him off, “Incredible. It was incredible.” His tone left no room for argument, and Paul thanked him, uncharacteristically bashful. They jammed a little more after that, playing silly tunes and singing even sillier sappy lyrics over the top. Improvised sappy lyrics quickly became salacious ones, followed by a demonstration of those lyrics on the bed, or sofa, or floor. 

After a bit of needling and another killer performance in front of John’s friends, Paul was, much to the displeasure of Stu (who was always wary of newcomers) and the faint happiness of Pete, playing with John and his band at a few of their gigs. John loved it for two reasons, firstly, he got to be with Paul more, the lad was barely out of his sight and that suited him just fine. Secondly, Paul really did elevate the group, he had such precision in his playing, that even their set list of covers started to sound..different, original. It was thrilling. 

They were trailing home after one such gig, enjoying the hint of warmth brought by spring, just chatting, when John couldn’t hold it all back anymore. 

“I’ve never felt like this before,” he muttered, half-hoping that Paul hadn’t heard the second the words were out of his mouth. Unfortunately for him, Paul whipped round, searching for John’s shifty eyes with his own. 

“What?” he asked, softly, slowing their walk to a stop. John felt himself flush deep red, and flicked some of his long auburn hair from his face, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. 

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter,” he said, throat tight. But when he looked up, Paul was smiling faintly at him, his own cheeks rosy, but when he spoke, his voice was strong and deliberate. 

“Me neither. But it’s good, yeah?” he said, squeezing John’s hand between two of his own. A wave of affection washed over John, he could almost feel it dragging him off his feet. Paul’s face was so close, the shadow of his stubble visible under the faded streetlight. 

“Yeah. Very,” John breathed, before pressing their lips together.

Paul pulled away before long, amused but pleased. “C’mon, you daft git, let’s get home. It’s freezing.” John gasped, mock-offended. He grabbed Paul’s hand again, and started to walk, jokingly fast with absurd long strides. He stopped when he heard Paul hiss in pain, his step faltering. 

“You okay?” he asked, concern making him drop the jokey act. 

Paul grimaced, but started walking again, “Yeah, yeah, just got a bit of a gammy ankle that’s all. I must have gone over on it the other day. It’s fine though! Just twinges a bit.” 

John pursed his lips, watching Paul carefully. “If you’re sure..”

“I am,” Paul said firmly. “If it gets too bad I’ll tell you, and you can carry me.”

“Fireman’s lift or bridal style, sir?” John joked, enjoying both mental images a little too much. 

“A piggy back will do,” Paul replied, faux-serious, but reveling in John’s cackling response. 

***

There is an axiom in British culture, known as Sod’s law. It is usually taken to mean, ‘if something can go wrong, it will’. In John Lennon’s case, there existed an addendum, postulating that if something hasn’t gone wrong yet but you feel it’s going to, do something immeasurably stupid and fuck it up yourself. 

It was a tried and tested pattern of behaviour for him, but not one he was actively thinking about when he watched Paul from his spot at the bar, gulping from a bottle like an unweaned baby. 

Paul was tittering, pink with pleasure, as he talked to him. Tara. An old friend apparently, and one that John had swiftly been dropped for, as Paul spent the whole evening talking a mile a minute with the swishy haired twat. John felt his mood grow sourer and sourer as the night passed him by, the usual post-gig partying nothing but a cacophony of noise around him as he watched Paul fall apart laughing, his arm brushing Tara’s. 

The club was emptying by the time Paul wandered back over to him, having hugged his friend goodbye. John felt like there was a thundercloud hanging above his head, and was shocked that Paul didn’t seem to register it, just leading them out onto the street, trying to start a conversation about next week’s gig. John said nothing, feeling sick to his stomach, anger and jealousy burning inside him like acid. His silence finally got Paul’s attention, and he wheeled on him, brow furrowed. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, concerned. 

The question infuriated John, and his reply was sardonic and cutting. “Oh, so you care now?”

Paul spluttered, shock colouring his features, “What are you on about? Of course I care.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” John said, his voice sickly sweet and cloying. “You haven’t so much as glanced at me all night.”

The other man’s mouth fell open. “Is that what this is about? John, _we played a gig together_ and then I talked to my friend.”

“Yeah, you _talked_. I saw you. Batting your pretty eyelashes at him.” John spat, jealousy and fear writhing within him, sharpening his tongue, making him cruel. 

Paul felt irritation flood through his body, and took a step back, exhaling against his anger, rationalising that rising to John when he was like this would only make things worse. John was clearly itching for a fight, and Paul didn’t want to give it to him. “That’s unfair,” he said, attempting to stay calm. 

But his coolness only made John burn hotter, now doubly-angry that he felt Paul was brushing him off. “I’m only sorry I stuck around,” he continued, his words ugly and twisted by paranoia and drink. “You could’ve had a fun night without me. Maybe you’d be wanking him off in the back of a cab by now.”

Paul’s inhale was sharp and audible, and he recoiled as though struck. He kept his face impassive, even as he felt something within him crack and start to bleed. “Look. I’m going home. I can’t be with you when you’re like this.”

All John heard was the rejection, and the rational part of his brain utterly lost the fight to wrestle the wheel away from the nasty envious goblin currently operating his mouth. “Yeah, fuck off home,” he sneered, his boozy breath filling the air between them. “I can’t be with you either.”

Paul felt cold and numb as that ambiguous statement sluiced down his back and between his shoulder blades like icy water. His eyes stung, but there was no way he’d let the tears fall, not here. He turned without a word and strode for the tube station, not seeing the way John’s jaw shook and his fists clenched when he didn’t look back. 

The next day John woke upside down in bed. For a blissful moment he couldn’t recall the night before, and reached out lazily for Paul. When his hands closed around empty air he groaned and opened his eyes, finding himself confronted not by his lover but Kermit’s blank (and to him, vaguely accusatory) face. His memories slammed back after a few more blinks, banging into his head along with the awareness of his banging hangover headache. 

“Shit,” he breathed into the quiet room, fumbling around for his phone in a panic. No new messages, fuck. He sat up quickly, running long fingers through his tangled hair, wincing when they were caught on a particularly impressive snarl. Panic was coursing through his veins, and his heart was hammering as he shakily pushed his glasses on. He was still angry, furious even, but all he could see in his mind’s eye was Paul’s paper white face when John said he _couldn’t be with him_. Why on Earth had he said that? What a fucking moron. 

A quick glance at the clock told him it was the middle of the afternoon already, so driven by anxiety, he gathered his phone and wallet and left his flat, still wearing the crumpled clothes he’d slept in last night. 

After bouncing his leg nervously the whole train ride (the guy next to him hadn’t been very impressed) John found himself at Paul’s door, ringing the bell repeatedly. No-one was answering - George was usually out in the day, but he’d thought Paul would be home. He stepped back, swearing, and realised that one of the first floor windows was open, just wide enough for him to shimmy through. 

Without stopping to consider what a ridiculously stupid idea it was, John dragged a wheelie bin beneath the window and hopped up. He did a rather embarrassing seal impression sliding through the gap, but breathed a sigh of relief when his boots landed on the wooden floor of Paul’s living room. Now inside, he could hear quiet music coming from Paul’s bedroom, and that anger burnt hot again. If there was one thing he hated, above all, it was being ignored. He stomped over to Paul’s room, already yelling his apologies. “Look, Paul, I’m sorry!” he began and then stopped short at the sight that met him. 

Paul’s laptop was open on his bed, playing some Netflix comedy, all bright colours and jaunty music, but Paul wasn’t watching. 

He was propped up against his pillows, not quite asleep, but not fully awake either. His skin was a dull grey, the sickly colour of white sheets that have accidentally gone through a dark wash. It was shiny too, a faint sheen of sweat visible, gleaming on the apples of his rounded cheeks. His breathing was laboured, a strained wheeze which seemed louder than the show that was playing to nobody. 

“Paul,” John breathed, shocked. The man in question looked up, recognition spreading over his features a second or so too late. He attempted to sit up a little straighter, though when he spoke his voice was pitiful. It sounded like he’d spent the morning gargling drawing pins. 

“John,” he croaked. “You can’t be here now, I’m sorry, I’m too tired.”

Normally such a brush off would drive John mad, but the rug had been well and truly pulled out beneath him. He ran to his side immediately, placing the back of his hand on Paul’s red hot forehead. “You need water,” he muttered, seizing the empty glass from the side table. “And then you need medicine. Or a Doctor,” he continued, half talking to himself. 

Paul blinked, looking somewhat confused still, but made to get out of bed, clumsily taking the glass. “Can get m’own water,” he mumbled, taking a few shaky steps across the room. John crossed in front of him to hold the door, and turned round to see something that he would relive many times in his nightmares.  
  
The younger man faltered and stopped, and then whispered, with a thread of genuine fear in his voice, “John, I-”

Before he finished the sentence, he collapsed to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. The glass in his hand shattered, spraying across the room like an odd two dimensional firework. John cried out in shock and horror, dropping to his knees beside him. Paul’s eyes were half-lidded and unfocused, and his breathing was a terrifying rattle. John’s blood ran cold, and he pulled his phone from his pocket with shaking hands, holding it to his ear with one and gripping one of Paul’s hands in the other. 

“I need an ambulance, my friend has collapsed,” he blurted, the words running together in his mouth. If he said them quickly he didn’t have to think about them, and if he didn’t have to think about them, he’d be able to get through the call without freaking out. 

Waiting for the ambulance was the hardest part. It can only have been ten minutes but it felt like hours, listening to Paul hiss in painful breaths. Paul came back to himself a bit for a few seconds, blinking up at the horrid patterned ceiling. 

“What’s happening?” he whimpered, childlike and scared. John shushed him, trying to catch his eye, but Paul’s dilated pupils stayed fixed on his lightshade until they closed again. 

“You’re going to be alright, it’s going to be alright,” John repeated, a meaningless litany, for both Paul and himself. When the green-clad paramedics arrived they moved him aside, swarming around Paul. The woman who was examining him glanced at John, her voice friendly and no nonsense. 

“What’s your friend’s name, pet?” she said, her Geordie twang pronounced. Her hair was iron grey and pulled up in a bob, and her hands strong but gentle. 

“Paul,” John supplied, his own voice wavering as he stared at Paul’s now prone form. 

“Okay. Can you hear me Paul, love?” She asked, cajoling like a parent getting a favoured child out of bed. Paul didn’t respond, didn’t even stir, and John could feel his heart in his throat. 

The paramedics started speaking in their own technobabble to each other, and John felt his panic rise with each word. The word _infection_ cropped up time and time again, and the ambulance crew began transferring Paul onto a stretcher to take him to hospital. 

“Are you coming with us, son? You can, but you have to stay out of the way,” the other paramedic, a bald, but kindly looking man, asked, and John nodded mutely. As soon as they got to the hospital, Paul was rushed away, leaving John marooned in the A&E waiting room. He’d watched (except not really watched, not at all) the same rolling news bulletin three times on the shitty hospital television when a blue clad nurse approached him, leading him into an empty treatment room. 

“Mr…?” she began.

“Lennon. John Lennon,” he filled in, quick and desperate. 

“Okay, Mr Lennon. May I ask what your relationship is with the patient?” she asked, calm and inscrutable. 

“He’s my boyfriend,” John replied, the words ash in his mouth. Of course, Paul had been, but they’d fought. Oh God, they’d _fought_. But he knew that calling himself that would make it more likely that he could be privy to Paul’s information. 

She hummed in response, glancing down at her clipboard. “I’m afraid he has a very nasty infection in his lungs. We’re not sure what’s causing it at this stage, but multiple treatments have been administered. But we were concerned about the state of his breathing, so he’s been intubated and placed in a medically induced coma.”

“A coma,” John repeated numbly, feeling as though he’d been cursed. His body was cooling, turning to stone, his own breathing like choking against a tightening noose. “Will he,” his voice broke, “will he get better?”

Some warmth and sympathy broke through her professional facade then, and she sighed. “We’re trying our very best, Mr Lennon. And we’ll have more answers for you soon.”

So, medical-speak for ‘I don’t have a clue’ then, John thought bitterly, still feeling strangled.

“If he has family, it’s probably best that they’re contacted,” she said softly, patting his arm, before leaving the room. 

John slumped, folding in half in his seat. He wanted to scream, but all he did was close his eyes. He bookended his day with the same word he’d woken with. “Shit.”


	2. Chapter 2

John just sat for a few minutes, staring at his scuffed boots. Around him patients came and went, a sobbing woman cradling her swollen left wrist began to shout at a beleaguered receptionist. The A&E television restarted the same rolling news bulletin once again, disaster and tragedy relayed in bored tones, while equally bored people took it in. He registered none of it. Nothing but the feeling of blood rushing in his own ears. 

Eventually he took a shaky breath, and fumbled for his phone in his pocket. Right, Paul’s family. A dad called Jim and a brother called Mike, he knew that much, but god knows he’d never met them. Never even awkwardly been caught in the background of a video call. He couldn’t contact them, so he needed someone who could. 

He tried to calm himself down while he waited for George to answer his call, silently thanking the powers that be that he’d thought to get the lad’s number. 

“Hello?” George said, sounding wary. The prickliness of his voice told John that Paul had in fact relayed last night to his flatmate before falling ill, and the thought made hot shame prickle up his neck and face. 

“Hey, George,” John said, his voice flat even to his own ears.

“What’s up?” he responded immediately, and John swore he could see his furrowed brow even through the phone. The boy had a sixth sense. 

“Paul’s ill, he’s in the hospital,” John sighed, the words leaving him in a rush. They still hadn’t really sunk into his brain, and he was quietly thankful for that. 

“What? What’s wrong?” George sounded concerned, his voice sharpening. 

“I went round. He wasn’t well. He collapsed.” John explained monotonously. 

“And now? Is he okay?” George’s voice was as shrill as someone’s as chilled out as him could ever get. John raked a hand through his still messy hair and exhaled, not liking the way his eyes were starting to sting. 

“He’s in a coma. I was calling because I really need you to call his family. He’s in St Thomas’ Hospital, okay?” John’s voice was clipped, all but screaming to George that this needed to be done _now_ , he could ask him questions/shout at him at a later date. 

Luckily George seemed to understand, and hung up with a promise to get on with it right away. 

On slightly wobbly legs, John hobbled back up to the desk and cleared his throat. An exhausted looking receptionist blinked up at him.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yeah. My friend was just admitted to the ICU, it’s still earlyish and I wondered if there was any way I could visit him?” he asked, as calmly as he could, knowing that playing the good boy would be what got him in to see Paul. The receptionist sighed, but lifted a clunky white phone, complete with old-fashioned curly cord, to her ear, and waved him back to his seat with one hand. Half an hour or so later a young nurse came to fetch him, and led him through the rabbit warren of a hospital, trying to smile comfortingly at him but instead flashing him more of a grimace.

The intensive care ward smelt so strongly of bleach it was almost dizzying. It was quiet, and John actually couldn’t see any of the other patients properly, the ugly patterned curtains drawn tightly around their beds. The nurse pulled one curtain aside and led him in to see Paul, and John felt his throat catch at the sight. 

Somewhere in his heart John hoped that Paul would look restful, like he was in some kind of healing sleep, warm and safe. Instead, he still looked awful, pale and feeble against the scratchy sheets. He was attached to all sorts of machines that were making a cacophony of beeps, but the most obvious change was the tube secured across his cheeks and down his throat, helping him to breathe. It obscured a lot of his face, and the open-mouthed effect made it obvious that the man was unconscious, not resting. 

The nurse had stepped away quietly, leaving John to stare at Paul’s slack face in silent horror. The blessed numbness that had sustained him thus far was leaving him, bleeding away and leaving very real pain behind. His eyes grew wet, and he tried to blink those tears away, to no avail. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered pathetically, brokenly. Sorry for what, he didn’t really know. Sorry for being a dick. Sorry for arguing. Sorry for not being with you last night. Sorry you’re lying in hospital with broken lungs. Sorry for everything. 

What remained of visiting hours bled away, and John couldn’t find anything else to say. He felt useless, redundant, and so his words were too. When the nurse returned with pursed lips to pull him away, he finally stepped forward, taking Paul’s hand in his own two and pressing a light kiss to it. The hand was still warm, and John tried to take that warmth with him even as he travelled home and got into his cold and empty bed. He lay on his side, absently picking at his bedding with his nails. His tears left itchy tracks on his cheeks. 

His phone pinged a few times, and he typed out a very basic message for the band group chat, explaining that Paul was sick in hospital, but John himself was fine. Stu and Pete seemed genuinely sad for him, but could offer little comfort. They hadn’t known Paul very well, and had very different images in their minds when imagining Paul sick. Nothing comparing to the reality.

At some point in the night John sat up jerkily, unable to handle the way his body kept instinctively rolling to the side, reaching out for a bed partner that wasn’t there. He flipped himself over, sleeping with his feet at his headboard and his face pressed into his pillows at the bottom of the bed. The newness of the position was enough to distract him from how cold and empty the sheets felt, and he finally fell asleep. 

The next day, as soon as he could, John made his way back to the hospital. Visiting hours were due to start in an hour or so, but he felt totally lost at home. His thoughts eating him alive no matter what he did, he felt drawn to Paul, like a gravitational pull. He wanted to see him again, to watch his chest move, to hear the beeps that marked his heart’s beats, to know for sure he wasn’t gone. So hospital it was. He had planned to sit in the waiting area until he was called, but stopped short when he reached the bank of sterile blue seats. 

Two men already sat there, one older and one young. The older man was balding, and nervously flipping through a copy of the Metro without reading it. The younger was playing with his phone, but again, his eyes weren’t focusing on anything in particular. Both had Paul’s strong brow. Of course, Paul’s family. John felt his mouth go dry at the sight, robbing him of his trademark wit. He hardly ever felt like this, and probably wouldn’t have had he met them in a normal way. But knowing that their son and brother, respectively, was lying a little ways down the corridor in such a sorry state had his palms sweating. 

The older man, Paul’s father, caught sight of him and lowered his paper. He looked John up and down in a way that made John shift uncomfortably on his feet. He knew Jim was probably taking in his long (now lank and unwashed) hair, his ripped jeans, his black t-shirt emblazoned with faded text reading " _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?_ ”

“Hi, I’m John,” he managed to say haltingly. Jim’s eyes widened minutely, and Mike pulled out one headphone to blink up at him. Now more than ever, John wished that Paul was smiling beside him, the way he should’ve been for this moment. Not least because he didn’t even know if Paul had told his father about them. He didn’t think he had. He knew that Paul loved and respected his father, and that went both ways, but equally that his boyfriend held all his cards very close to his chest, and tended not to share anything until it needed to be shared. John had expected to be debuted at Christmas or a birthday or some such occasion, and felt his heart swoop uncomfortably at the sweet image. 

“Ah, yes. Paul’s friend - George said you were with him, when…” Jim’s voice faltered for half a second, but he cleared his throat before making a visible effort to school his expression into something neutral. “When it happened,” he finished lamely, looking at John expectantly. 

When it happened. It flashed through his mind for the hundredth time at the words. Paul’s shaky voice breathing his name, the thump as he hit the ground, the sound of shattered glass. “Yes,” he said in what he hoped was a steady voice. 

Jim only nodded while Mike continued to stare, so John felt himself speak up to fill the silence. “I wondered if I could see him with you today?” he said, his tone reflecting more confidence than he was feeling. Paul’s dad looked a little confused at his vehemence, but nodded, gesturing to the seat next to him. For a moment, John thought he was going to ask him something else, but Jim merely reached for his paper again, and turned away. Fine, he couldn’t bear smalltalk at a time like this, and was glad he was in the company of people who clearly felt the same way.

The silence remained when they were eventually allowed in, John trailed behind them, feeling like an interloper. Jim let out a soft breath when he saw his son, still looking shockingly weak. Mike could only look on, wide eyed at seeing his brother brought so low. Paul’s dad reached out to softly ruffle his son’s hair, like he was a child, and the action seemed so oddly intimate that John had to look away. He looked to touch Paul too, to take his hand, but he held back, unable to take the final steps to his bedside while his family occupied that space. His family deserved to be there, he didn’t. All he could think of was Paul’s hurt face when John had spat nasty and jealous insults at him, shocked as though he’d been slapped. 

He was brought out of his self-loathing filled reverie by the arrival of a Doctor, who Jim turned to immediately. John made to go when the man arrived, but Jim jerked his head to gesture that he should stay, so he did. His desperation for news, for reassurance, outweighing the awkwardness he felt. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have great news,” the Doctor began, and John felt his heart jump into his throat. “Your son isn’t responding to any of the drugs we’ve tried, his vitals aren’t where we’d like them to be. We’re no closer to finding out the source of the infection, but the best thing for us to do for him at this point would be to operate.” 

“Operate,” Jim repeated flatly, his brow furrowing, worry clouding in his eyes.

“It’s a simple procedure,” the Doctor moved to placate, voice soothing and controlled. “We’d make a small incision and go in between the ribs. Removing the infection should improve Mr McCartney’s condition significantly.” 

Jim nodded mutely, while John could only stare at Paul’s moving chest, counting along with each laboured breath. It turned out the operation would take place in the next few hours so the three of them were quietly ushered out. John managed to touch Paul’s hand for a second or few before leaving, though neither Jim or Mike seemed to notice. It was all he could bring himself to take, worried that Paul would shatter if touched too strongly, and even more worried that if he reached out and grabbed him the way he wanted to, he’d never ever let go.

Paul’s family were bedding down in Paul’s flat for the time being, and they bade John a polite farewell outside the hospital. Jim turned to him, voice gruff and eyes far away, before thanking him for being there for his son. John’s guilt was acid in his throat, and he could barely choke out a reply before walking away. Every step he put between him as the hospital made him feel colder, an astronaut walking to the dark side of the moon. 

***

That night’s gig was a nightmare. John was physically there, but his mind was far away, his body acting on autopilot. Stu and Pete were throwing him concerned glances every few minutes, but he didn’t even register them. Just closing his eyes as he played, resisting the urge to turn to where Paul had taken to standing. 

After the set and the muted applause that followed, Stu and Pete dragged him to the bar. They were talking about nothing, TV or some shit, attempting to coax him out of his shell. John nodded along, giving monosyllabic responses when they were required. He did sit up properly however, when Allen came to join them. Allen was their (unofficial) promoter, and was the kind of guy who seemed great fun when you were bladdered, and who you quickly realised was a total prick once you’d sobered up. Nevertheless, he had connections, so it was worthwhile for the band to keep him on side.

“Hello boys!” he boomed, and John cringed, already irritated. Allen clocked this immediately, and turned to him, a wolfish grin on his face. “Why the long face, Johnny?”

“His boyfriend’s in a coma,” Pete chimed in, sympathy still colouring his tone. Allen’s eyes widened and he turned back to John. He sucked in a breath. 

“ _Boyfriend in a coma, I know, I know, it’s serious…_ ” Allen sang, teasing, undeterred by the fact that his audience of three were still as statues, and John’s eyes were alight with anger. 

“Shut the fuck up, Allen,” John gritted out, only his bone-weariness keeping him from decking him from across the table. 

“Oooh, is that any way to talk to a man who’s about to dramatically improve your night?” he replied, lightly, ignoring the very real rage in John’s face. 

“What do you mean?” Stu perked up, leaning forwards.

“Well, a little birdie told me that a scout for Reading and Leeds is coming here next week, wants to watch you. And if you’re lucky, you’ll get a spot on the Introducing stage,” Allen told them with relish. Even John perked up at that, the thought of playing a proper festival...was thrilling. His hand twitched towards his phone, and for half a second he was about to bang out a text to Paul, to let him know the news. Pain bloomed in his chest when he remembered that Paul’s phone was where he’d left it, sat on his desk in his empty bedroom. 

“Sounds good,” John said gruffly, while Stu and Pete nodded eagerly in agreement. John coasted through the rest of the night half-heartedly telling old festival anecdotes, and was so tired by the time he arrived home that he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

He was woken far too early the next day by his phone ringing, the strains of Dancing Queen jerking him from sleep. Fumbling for his phone, he attempted to clear his throat before picking up. 

“Hello?” he grunted,sounding like his throat had been rubbed down with sandpaper. 

“John?” a male voice said, slightly unsure but not shy. The voice was vaguely familiar, though nothing was clicking in John’s sluggish morning brain. 

“This is he,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. 

“It’s Jim. Jim McCartney,” at that John all but bolted upright in bed, tiredness quickly chased away by the anxiety flooding through his system. 

“Is Paul okay?” he breathed out in a rush, distantly aware that he was being quite rude and should probably have opened with something a little more conversational. He couldn’t help it, his fear for Paul was like a living thing, parasitic and slimy, he could almost feel it entwined with the inner workings of his chest. 

“No change since yesterday, son,” Jim sighed. “But it’s his surgery this morning. I wondered if you’d like to come over. We can wait for the results together. Maybe visit him, if we’re allowed.”

Jim’s words were carefully neutral, and John could fathom out no ill will. He agreed readily, and set about trying to make himself vaguely presentable. He combed his long auburn hair into something that couldn’t quite be called submission but was definitely better than it had been the past few days. Today’s shirt was a safe Starship Enterprise patterned affair, without a sexually suggestive lyric in sight. 

Knocking at Paul’s door felt very odd, given that the last time he was here he’d been working out how best to break in through the window. Jim answered it with a small close-lipped smile, though worry was still evident in his brow. 

“Would you like some tea?” Jim asked, bustling around Paul’s tiny kitchen, pointedly ignoring the fact that it hadn’t been cleaned in about a month. John nodded mutely, acting only out of politeness, he wouldn’t taste anything he drank while he was this anxious anyway. 

“George and Mike have gone to the shop,” Jim informed him, placing down two mismatched mugs of tea onto the counter. John picked up the one he recognised as Paul’s, and tried not to grimace at the pain that lanced through him at the sight. He took a sip, and as expected, his stress rendered the tea no better than dishwater. 

“Oh. Right,” John said, shifting awkwardly. Jim took a sip of his own tea, leaning back against the counter, watching John over the rim of his mug. 

“So, how do you know Paul?” he asked suddenly, and John felt his neck grow hot. He fiddled with his denim jacket’s sleeve unconsciously, willing no redness to be showing on his face. His Aunt Mimi had often informed him during his childhood that his rosy cheeks gave him away when he lied. He decided to tell the truth, just not all of it. 

“He, um, came to one of my gigs,” he said offhandedly. Jim perked up at that. 

“You’re in a band? Or are you a comedian?” he asked, sounding genuinely interested. 

“A band,” John confirmed, letting his lips quirk a little, he didn’t want Jim to think he was too much of a miserable bastard. 

A short silence followed, and John took another ungainly slurp of his drink. 

“Come with me a second,” Jim said, already walking towards what John knew to be Paul’s bedroom. John followed, confused, but stepped into the room when Jim opened the door for him. He glanced around for a moment, and his heart dropped. 

It was obvious that Jim was staying in here, the man’s forest green suitcase was open on the floor next to Paul’s bed. But that wasn’t what John was staring at. Paul had a noticeboard above his bed. All kinds of things were pinned to it, to-do lists, posters, tickets from exhibitions and gigs and plays. And pictures. 

Most of the pictures were of Paul and George and Pattie, pulling stupid faces at various tourist attractions (John’s personal favourite was the one which showed them screaming Home Alone-style as they were super imposed alongside a shark at Sea Life). But there were new additions too. A selfie of he and Paul at the fair, faces still lightly smeared in chocolate. A picture of John swooning dramatically outside the London Dungeon. And a photo-strip, taken in a booth at an arcade, the series of photos being mostly the two of them pulling faces, except for the last one, which featured a flushed John kissing Paul on the cheek, while his face was screwed up in delight. 

At the foot of the bed sat Mr Giant Bear, the words ‘be mine’ held in its huge stubby hands (paws?). Oh. 

“Uhhhhh,” John choked, his throat closing. He turned to Jim, who to John’s utter shock, looked wryly amused as well as weary. 

“Friends, huh?” he said dryly, his eyebrows raising. John grimaced, trying to look apologetic. 

“I’m sorry-” he began, before Jim raised his hand and cut him off.

“For what? Caring about my boy? No apology needed, son,” he said gruffly, but in a tone that left no room for argument. John could feel his face turn beet red, and again, guilt churned in his stomach when he thought of Paul’s hurt expression in the face of John’s jealousy and bile. But being even tacitly accepted by Jim meant being kept in the loop, and he suddenly found the thought of being turfed out now unbearable, so he just nodded in understanding. 

Jim clapped him on the shoulder with a sigh, just as they heard the front door open and voices from the hallway. “Right, let’s go see if those boys have brought us any biscuits to go with our tea,” he said, turning and leaving John alone in the room. John stared at the photo of him kissing Paul for a few moments more, before turning and leaving himself. 

He returned to the hospital that afternoon with Paul’s dad and brother. Paul’s surgery was over without complication, but his symptoms had yet to improve. The doctors and nurses repeated that it could just take time, but John could see the worry creasing their faces. They were still trying to figure out exactly what was wrong with him, and though their words were calm and dripping with medical jargon, it was clear they were coming up empty. 

The three of them visited Paul again, and John was saddened to see no obvious change in him. Mike and Jim chatted to his comatose form lightly, as though he’d wake up any second. John couldn’t, he stared at his ashen face blankly, avoiding Jim’s sympathetic gaze. 

The next few days passed in much the same way. The monotony borne of a lack of break through and anxiety about the implications for Paul’s health was driving John to distraction. He tried to throw himself into rehearsing with the band for the audition gig, but his heart just wasn’t fully in it. He was passable, sure, but he looked and felt totally out of it. His thoughts constantly cycled back to Paul, his smile, his laughter. The memories rolled in his mind like film, torturing him.

Soon though, it was the day of the gig itself. John stood backstage alone while Stu and Pete helped set up, running his hands through his hair, mussing it up. Deep down he knew he shouldn’t even be attempting this right now, but he’d selfishly grasped the opportunity, desperate for something, anything, to distract him from the nightmarish waiting.

He skipped a little on the spot, a small last minute warm up in an attempt to make himself feel somewhat alive. Stopping only when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. 

“Hello?” he answered, leaning back against the dirty wall. 

“John? Is this a bad time?” Jim’s voice was uncertain, and shaky, and that alone had John’s heart thudding. 

“No, no. What’s wrong?” he managed to choke out, voice deceptively flat. Jim’s answering sigh quavered and John was suddenly very glad he was leaning against something solid. 

“It’s Paul. The infection has gotten worse, they said-”

John could barely hear what Jim was saying over the pounding of his own pulse in his ears. He felt cold, like all the blood in his veins had been replaced with snowmelt, and his mouth was dry as a bone. When the call ended his phone slipped from his hand, clattering on the sticky floor. 

***

Stu and Pete looked worried when he eventually stumbled on stage, rather worse for wear. He lunged at the microphone and went through the first song like a man possessed. He wasn’t consciously doing anything, muscle memory and panic being the only drivers of his performance for the first few tracks. The crowd seemed to be vaguely into it, already dancing, nothing more than a mass of jumping bodies thanks to John’s myopia. 

They reached a scheduled break in the songs like a car screeching to a halt. This would normally be the time for some banter, for John to flirt a little with the audience, show some personality. He pasted a fake smile onto his face and tried his best, though he felt like a jenga tower ten rounds in, wobbly and on the edge of collapse. 

“I’d like to dedicate this little number to all the lovers out there,” John purred in his roughened voice, aiming for teasing with his tone but accidentally landing squarely in bitter. He blinked, shaking his head a little, adrenaline pumping through him and opening his mouth without his consent. 

“And to my lover, Paul. Who can’t be here tonight, because he’s in a coma,” he continued, in a blank matter-of-fact way, as though he were announcing that the owner of the red Fiat 500 outside should go move it before it gets clamped. People in the crowd tittered, clearly waiting for the punchline. 

“I don’t know why you’re laughing. It’s not funny,” John said, ignoring the way Stu visibly cringed in his periphery. “In fact, it’s very fucking unfunny.” 

No-one was laughing now. 

“He’s the best person I’ve ever met.” John continued, the floodgates open. “He’s incredibly talented but still humble. And not in a fake, fishing-for-compliments way, you know? It’s because he’s kind, genuinely kind. He loves dogs. I know loads of people love dogs, but he literally stops what he’s doing every time he sees a dog. Every time he’s like ‘a dog!’ and I am too, but he sees _that dog_. Every dog he sees he sees _them_.” 

The crowd was silent, and awkwardness was filling the room like a physical presence. Stu was frozen in horror, but distantly considering rugby tackling John away from the microphone. Pete was sneakily googling the phrase ‘can u die from second-hand embarrassment’ from behind his drum kit. John continued. 

“I fucked it all up,” he admitted quietly, with a bark of humourless laughter. “I said horrible things to him. I _hurt_ him. And now I can’t even tell him how sorry I am.”

He sucked in a difficult breath as he started to shake, pinching and pulling at his own hands as warmth welled behind his eyes. 

“His Dad just called me. The infection in his lungs has spread to his heart,” saying the words out loud made them real somehow, and John’s mask cracked clean open. “Which means he might die,” he finished. 

A single fat tear rolled down his pale face, highlighted by the bright lights. John dropped his guitar with a clang and ran from the stage before it could be joined by any more. 

Stu and Pete found John a few minutes later, sat backstage with his head between his legs. Their set had been cut short, and now different music could be felt pounding beneath their feet. When John looked at them he was no longer crying, but his face was haggard and wrecked.

“I’m sorry guys,” he whispered, voice cracking. But his bandmates just shook their heads, pity plain on their faces. Stu stepped forward and placed his hand gently on John’s shoulder. 

“Do you want us to come with you?” he asked, but John shook his head, wiping his reddened face roughly. 

“I’ll be alright. But thanks mate,” he said, and Stu brought him into a quick hug. John trembled against Stu’s leather jacket, biting down hard on his lip to keep himself from falling apart completely. 

It was odd to be on the way to the hospital so late at night, but Jim had told John in the call that they were being allowed to see Paul now, because…

He couldn’t even complete the thought. He shuddered, trying to ignore the drunken revellers laughing in the same train carriage. He glanced up to see a tipsy couple all over each other, dropping closed mouthed kisses on each others’ faces, their laughter overlapped like it was a song they’d written together. His heart clenched. 

Jim (with Mike as a silent shadow) met him outside the hospital, leading him back to the ward in near-silence. Only muttering that the doctors were still ‘looking’ and ‘trying’ - whatever that meant. John’s anger burned low in his gut, kept down only by his sadness and panic. 

Sombre looking doctors and nurses met them outside the ward, quietly telling Jim there was no change. John stepped forward, desperation evident in his still croaky voice. “Surely there’s something you can do? Scans or something? He had a dodgy ankle a few weeks back? Could that be something?”

He was cut off by the doctor, who looked at him pityingly. John hated it. “We’re doing everything we can. But if you want to see him, you should do it now.”

The words spattered all over John like cold water, and he stepped back, instinctively waiting for Jim and Mike to go first. But they didn’t move. The doctor’s backed off, giving them their privacy. Mike wandered away too, looking lost.

“You should have some time alone with him,” Jim said weakly, gesturing that John should go ahead. The man looked exhausted, drip-white and shaky, memories of hospital goodbyes from years ago playing back in his dark eyes. Guilt and shame descended on John with such intensity that he felt physically hot, his cheeks burning red. 

“I really fucked up with your son,” he admitted suddenly, unable to bear it, staring at the ugly plastic floor so he didn’t have to see the disappointment in Jim’s face. Silence followed his proclamation, and John realised Jim was waiting for him to finish. 

“The night before it happened. We fought. I was...cruel,” John’s voice broke on the last word, and he blinked heavily to keep from crying properly. “You’ve been kinder to me than I deserve,” he finished, slowly opening his eyes to see Jim’s face. The man looked sad, but not angry. In fact he was eyeing John with a gentleness that only made his guilt blaze hotter. 

“But you regret it?” Jim said with a sigh, more observing than asking. John just nodded mutely, scared to open his mouth while there were so many warring emotions in his chest. 

“Then you should see him. Tell him that,” Jim said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He touched John on the arm for a few seconds, before walking away. 

Paul looked terrible. John stood beside his bed, just staring. The machines around him were still beeping, and he was no medical professional, but he’d watched enough _Casualty_ to know that the sounds weren’t right. But, still, they were there, and he clung to them. Paul looked small in bed, and the wrongness of that had him reeling. Paul was such a large presence, at once attentive and watchful while still being charming and sociable. It was a skill that never failed to impress John, and one that he missed right now, in this room that felt so empty. 

“Hey,” he began, voice cracking. He gently took Paul’s hand to anchor himself, running his thumb along the back of it. He stared at Paul’s pale face, at his closed eyes, surrounded by dark circles of a nasty looking purple. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, still stroking the hand. “And if you need to go, I understand. You can go. But it’d be great if you stayed. You could wake up and chuck me, and I’d be thankful for it,” he laughed brokenly, and it was a rough sound, incomplete without Paul’s own mingling with it. 

“I lo-,” he started, but choked off, fear gripping him at the realisation that he’d almost spoken aloud words that he dare not admit even to himself. He glanced back down at Paul, and pressed a feather-light reverent kiss to the hand he was holding. “Never mind, you _know,_ ” he whispered, before leaving the room.  
  
***

John woke up the next morning still in his clothes from the night before, they were stiff with sleep sweat and uncomfortably warm. He was laid atop his crumpled bedding, his phone still clutched in his hand, it’s vibration being what woke him up. 

He blinked blearily at his messages, fumbling for his glasses. When they finally came into focus, he almost dropped the phone on his own face. 

_From: Jim (Paul’s dad), 10:36AM_

_You should come. Paul is awake._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John sang 'Voulez Vous Couchez Avec Moi Ce Soir?' in an interview in the mid 70s. Yoko wore a shirt bearing those words in the mid 80s. 
> 
> The song Allen is singing in 'Girlfriend in a Coma' by The Smiths.
> 
> 'Casualty' is a British drama about a hospital.
> 
> Thank-you so much for your comments, they mean so much! <3


	3. Chapter 3

John had never wished for the power of teleportation more in his life. He ran to the station, nervously hopped up and down in the train carriage, and tore across Westminster Bridge to reach the hospital. His mind was buzzing, disbelief whiting everything out, the anxiety that had built inside him not quelled until he could see Paul with his own eyes. 

Jim was waiting just outside the ward entrance for him, looking exhausted, but happier than John had ever seen him. That alone set his heart racing. The older man opened his mouth to speak, but John couldn’t resist peering through the glass panelling of the door, and what he saw made his breath catch. Paul was sitting up in bed, propped up by pillows. He was still attached to machinery, but appeared to be nodding along to whatever Mike was saying, the boy looking more animated than he had been in days. The image, even distorted as it was by the thick glass, felt like the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. 

Jim gently placed a hand on his elbow, turning him back round. He smiled, and started to answer the obvious questions in John’s wide, somewhat watery, eyes. 

“They found out what was wrong. You helped actually. You mentioning that he’d hurt his ankle made them examine it, and they were pretty surprised to find it still swollen despite him being in bed for such a long time,” he began, and John perked up at the mention of the ankle, now oddly thankful for that long walk home that had exposed it. His mouth was dry as he worked to keep his eyes from darting to the blurry Paul over Jim’s shoulder, and he nodded for Jim to continue. 

“Anyway, he has a condition called Adult-Onset Still’s Disease. It’s where the body starts randomly attacking its own healthy tissue, apparently. But they gave him some anti-inflammatories and it cleared right up. He’s going to be a bit weak for a while but they said with the right treatment he’ll be absolutely fine,” Jim’s voice was warm by the end, an uncharacteristic grin playing around his lips. John grinned right back, the words beating against his skin like warm water, beginning the work of relaxing the knots of tension beneath. 

“He’ll be fine?” he repeated, just wanting to double-check, triple-check, that everything really would be okay. Jim nodded, almost vibrating with joy. There was a click behind them then, as a smiling Mike appeared, the boy’s face transformed with the absence of the worry that had been haunting it. 

“Do you want to go in?” he asked John, his voice friendly. John froze, warring impulses flaring up inside him. Yes, he wanted to go to Paul, was drawn to him like a magnet to a lump of iron, but his shame about that horrible night was almost paralysing. Jim, seeing his discomfort, patted his arm knowingly. 

“Don’t worry, we told him you’d be here,” he said. Those words were enough, and John moved automatically, walking through the door and towards Paul’s bed before he could convince himself not to. 

If seeing Paul through the door had been emotional, this was something else. He was still sitting in bed, absently playing with his phone (his dad must have brought it), looking a little worse for wear, pale and wan. But his breathing was strong and his eyes alert. That alone was enough to make John want to sag to the ground in relief, muttering praise to whatever deities may or may not exist. Before John’s bones could complete their metamorphosis into jelly, Paul looked up and caught his eye. 

All the breath left John’s lungs, as Paul eyed him, his face carefully neutral. 

“Um, hi,” John greeted, wincing at the way his voice wavered. 

“Hi,” Paul returned, and hearing his voice again was a physical pain, like a blow to the ribs. To have the most recent words spoken to him by Paul be something other than pained, confused whimpering felt like the most amazing gift. 

“Paul, I-” John started, stumbling over his words. 

“What are you doing here?” Paul cut him off. His voice was monotonous, no anger cracking through, only tiredness. Still, it was like a cup of cold water over John’s head. 

“Well, you’re not well, and I...I was worried for you,” John explained, trying desperately not to let his emotions run over into his words, as he knew his anger and his sadness were bosom buddies, one always accompanying the other, and he’d never forgive himself if he put his foot in his mouth again now. 

“Hmm,” Paul nodded, looking unimpressed. John hovered, desperately wanting to take a step forward, but sensing that the other man wouldn’t take too kindly to the incursion into his space. “It’s just...it’s fucking with my head a bit. What happened last night, I mean, what happened a while ago...well, for me, it _was_ last night, you know?” He laughed without humour and John felt his stomach swoop sickly. 

“Paul. Paul, I’m sorry,” he said desperately, resisting the ridiculous but very real urge to throw himself to the ground and beg for forgiveness. 

Paul just looked at him, taking in his pained face, his clenched fists, trembling as they were. He sighed. 

“I know you are,” he relented slightly, but still didn’t smile. “I just - I’m exhausted, okay? And I am still upset. I just can’t do this right now,” 

John's stomach was no longer swooping, it was straight up flying away, leaving him trying not to double over in pain. “Shall I, I mean, do you want me to-” 

“You should go,” Paul said, softly but emotionlessly, and John numbly accepted the dismissal. He walked from the ward as though in autopilot, throwing a thin smile at a sympathetic looking Jim and Mike as he passed. 

He almost ran down the street away from the hospital, a maelstrom of emotions whirling around in his head - sweet heady thankfulness combining with bitter regret and a deep sorrow. He suddenly couldn’t bear another lonely tube ride, taking him to another lonely evening in his dingy flat, so he strode right past the glowing mouth of the station entrance and straight into the nearest pub. 

The pub was around half-full, people mingling between heavy furnishings, an eclectic day time crowd in, people on their lunch break in amongst people who hadn’t stopped drinking since the night before. John hopped up onto a bar stool in the far corner, pressed flush against the wall, and got himself a pint. After a few mouthfuls he sighed, the adrenaline that had brought him this far vanishing, and he pressed his head to the bar, letting out a soft groan. 

He sat like that for a while, not crying, not really, but close. He just stewed, half-wanting to sit and weep like a child, half-wanting to smash his face into the nearest window and instead doing neither. 

It was the creak of someone sitting on the next bar stool that roused him, and he moved his head to side slightly, blinking up pitifully. 

The woman who had taken the next seat was staring at him unashamedly, but she didn’t look judgemental, just curious. She had a seemingly endless amount of wild black hair, some of which was tucked into the collar of her brown fur coat. A white beret was perched jauntily atop her head. 

“What?” John asked flatly, his head still on the bar, and her lips twitched. 

“What, what?” she replied, her voice lilting and accented. Japanese, John thought. 

“I’m having a bad day, alright?” he said, slowly sitting back up and taking another sip (or rather, gulp) of his drink.

The stranger only nodded, as though he’d just commented on the nice weather or the chintzy decor. “So how can we make it a good day?” she asked lightly, reaching out for her own cup of wine and swilling it around the glass. 

John barked a dry laugh. “You can’t. Unless you can make my boyfriend magically forgive me.” 

She turned back to him, her face serious. “None of us can make anyone forgive. We can only forgive ourselves,” she said solemnly, her dark eyes meeting his own. Oddly, he felt his frustration ebb away. She was right, there was nothing he could do to make Paul take him back, except give him the space he clearly wanted. Pleading was going to get him nowhere, especially when the man was still convalescing. All he could do was tackle himself, ensure that if it came to it, he could offer change alongside his apology. 

“...Thanks,” John said, genuinely meaning it. The woman inclined her head, before finishing the rest of her drink. She pushed the empty glass back across the bar daintily. 

“I am sorry you are sad. Open your heart to life anyway, and in time you’ll find what you seek,” she imparted, before hopping down from the stool (quite a way down, she was tiny!) and smoothing down her coat. She fumbled with her green leather handbag for a moment, before pressing what looked like a postcard into John’s hands and walking away without another word. 

John blinked, nonplussed, before flipping the card over. In small print in the centre was just one word.

_Breathe._

So despite his cynicism, he did just that. He sat up and filled his lungs properly, and when he exhaled he felt his tiredness set back in, but it was accompanied by a now bearable sadness, it’s sharp edges filed down. He could go home and sleep. 

***

Paul loved his father, he really, really did. But he was secretly very glad that the man had fallen asleep on the living room sofa rather than the camp bed set up in Paul’s own bedroom. He’d been out of hospital for a few days now, and his dad (and to a lesser extent, his brother) had been watching him like he was going to spontaneously combust at any given moment. It was frustrating, as Paul was the kind of person who just...got on with things. He didn’t like being fussed over. 

Of course, deep down he had to admit that he had needed some fuss. He was still annoyingly weak, his legs shaking when he stood for too long, his eyes always so heavy, no matter how much sleep he’d managed to get. His father, brother and George - once he’d stopped hugging him - had all been invaluable really. Helping him home and keeping him fed. Still, it was nice to have a moment alone, even if he was only spending that moment scrolling through Twitter on his phone. 

However, his solitude did have one downside - it was much harder to not dwell on John. Something plucked in his chest at just the thought, and he pushed it away. He’d felt so drawn to him, and loved every minute they spent together. He didn’t think he’d ever laughed so much in his life, nor felt so safe. And he’d been bolstered by the fact that John seemingly felt the same. But it had taken almost nothing to tip him over the edge, and he’d gained an insight into just how easily John’s sharp edges could be used to cut, to wound. Now, he was doubting everything. 

And yet, he couldn’t rid himself of the image of his boyfriend, hunched in on himself, standing over his hospital bed. Relief shining in his eyes like trapped stars. His dad hadn’t said much about John, only pursing his lips sadly when Paul had told him that he’d asked John to leave. They hadn’t even discussed what John was to him, with Paul not eager to start the conversation and Jim the kind of man who would rather face the firing squad than initiate that talk. But Paul sensed that his father knew, the man wasn’t stupid, the pictures of the two of them were still pinned on the bedroom wall. Paul’s arms were too weak to pull them down. That was the only reason they were still up. Definitely. 

He carried on scrolling, occasionally liking a video of a cute animal whenever one appeared between the barrage of nonsense. His thumb stopped when another video began to autoplay, and he squinted at the screen, scarcely believing his own eyes. Flipping up the volume, he restarted the video, hastily reading the caption. 

" _Omg if I saw this I would have passed away”_ was flanked by numerous cringing emojis, the tweet sitting at a few hundred likes. 

It was John. He looked a mess, but it was definitely him. He was on stage at the Borderline, tooling with his guitar, and slurring into the mic. His hair was ratty and his face pale, though his eyes were blazing in a way that had Paul transfixed. 

“I’d like to dedicate this little number to all the lovers out there..” John hissed, already shaking with emotion. When he mentioned Paul by name, he almost dropped his phone in shock. By the time the video ended John’s voice was as thick with tears as the room was with tension, and Paul felt like he’d slipped out of his first floor window. 

“Oh my fucking God,” he whispered, to the empty bedroom, pressing replay with shaking fingers. 

By the third watch, he’d convinced himself he wasn’t dreaming, but other than that, he wasn’t sure how to feel. Or rather, he was feeling so many things that he didn’t know where to start. He was sad, to see John so upset, and yet couldn’t stop the warmth that was spreading through him like the burn that comes with drinking spirits, at the clear confirmation that John really did care. He wasn’t just at the hospital to assuage his guilt - he really, truly, cared. Biting his lip to keep from smiling at that, and heaving a breath against his desire to weep, he hit replay once more. 

***

John was keeping it together. Sort of. Almost. It had been nearly two weeks since he’d last seen Paul, and he’d just about managed to avoid thinking of him every waking moment. A few times he’d unlocked his phone, tempted to text, when the word of the lady from the pub rang in his head. There was no point forcing Paul, he’d come round if and when he wanted to, as much as it physically pained him to do it, leaving him be was probably the best thing he could do. 

So instead he’d started writing - collating the scraps of poetry in his desk drawers into a notepad, tooling around with his guitar, trying not to dwell on the memory of the joy in Paul’s face when they’d jammed. He almost had actual songs now, but they still felt...incomplete. Rough around the edges, in need of another pair of hands to sand them off. 

He’d gone back to playing with the band anyway. Stu and Pete had been more forgiving than he felt he deserved, more forgiving than he would have been, anyway, were the roles reversed. Still, he could just about play the same old gigs with them without combusting with shame, pathetically grateful for the way that they’d barely brought it up after his initial miserable apology. 

Tonight they were playing back at the Borderline, to the usual half empty, only vaguely interested crowd. Still, it was better than nothing. After the show John sloped off stage, watching as Stu and Pete were pulled into the crowd by friends. John was too tired, almost burnt out. The sticky sweat of the place was dripping off the ends of his hair, the wetness stripping it of its usual reddish hue. God, he needed a shower. 

He slipped through a side door to backstage, but paused for a moment, leaning and catching his breath against the cool concrete wall, squinting in the increased artificial light. He started when the squeaky door to the club swung open, and damn near fell over when he saw who opened it. 

Paul stood in the doorway, looking tentative. He still seemed peaky under the unnaturally white lamps, the hints of shadows still present under his big dark eyes. But he was upright, and his breathing was wonderfully soundless. 

“Hi,” he breathed, sounding unsure, but the one syllable blew through John’s chest like a warm breeze. Dislodging debris he hadn’t even known was there. 

“Hi!” he returned, straightening up, trying not to sound too eager, but unable to keep the jittery joy out of his voice. Paul heard it, and smirked, genuine warmth welling up in him. _He’s happy to see me._

“I was in the area, I just wanted to stop by,” he explained, trying to sound casual. Like he wasn't lying through his teeth, and hadn't in fact got a cab all the way here, his Dad scolding him for even considering getting the tube while his legs were still so shaky. They were trembling a bit now, and John noticed, leading them the few steps back to the quasi ‘dressing room’, allowing himself and a grateful Paul to sink into the sticky brown leather sofa. 

“Are you alright?” John asked, as soon as they had. His voice soft as he worried his bottom lip. The evident concern in his eyes almost made Paul turn away, it was just too much to deal with. 

“I’m fine,” he said, and John raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms wordlessly. 

“I promise I’m fine! Just...not quite 100% yet,” Paul insisted with a laugh, and it was enough to get John to stop considering running him back to the hospital in a fireman’s lift. 

They sat in silence for a few moments after that. Paul had been desperate to get here, to see John, in the flesh, but now the moment had come and his courage had deserted him. His mouth was dry, and he cleared his throat. He and John spoke at the same time. 

“I really am sorry.”  
  
“I saw your bomb.”

They blinked at one another. 

“I know.”  
  
“Huh?”

John’s brow was furrowed, confusion evident in his eyes. “What do you mean?” he asked, and Paul resisted the urge to visibly cringe. He’d assumed John had at least heard about the video, if not seen it. 

“Uh. That gig. The one where..you talked about me. Someone put it online,” he ventured, trying to soften the blow. John took a second to absorb that and then put his head in his hands, groaning like a man who’d just woken up with the world's worst hangover. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he moaned, the words slightly muffled by his own palms. Paul reached out, gently touching a pale forearm, smiling as John looked up at him, face utterly miserable, cheeks a blotchy pink with embarrassment. 

“Hey, I thought it was pretty sweet,” he said, enjoying the way that John’s lips twitched at that The older man sat back up and stuck his nose in the air, adopting mocking posh affectations. 

“Excuse me sir, John Winston Lennon is _not_ sweet,” he said snootily, huffing. Paul stifled his chortles and kept a mock-straight face. 

“I do apologise,” he said, breathy and abashed in his faux-sincerity, laughter dancing around his eyes. He leaned in closer, caught in the game, and John did the same, lips still pursed in what was quickly becoming an impression of his Aunt Mimi. 

The tension between them broke like a wave, and they began to giggle, both leaning forward in their seats. They laughed until they could only gasp, and then stared at each other in the silence while they caught their breath. 

Neither could say who started kissing who, only that in the next moment, they were indeed kissing. John was cupping Paul’s face, gently, reverently, revelling in the flush of healthy heat beneath his sweaty palms. Paul shuddered, relaxing under John’s touch in a way he hadn’t since he’d woken up. His presence was like a warm shower, untangling knots of muscle he hadn’t even known he’d had. 

When the kiss broke Paul pitched forward, his head nestled just above John’s pounding heart. Limbs wrapped around him, as John did his best octopus impression, but he didn’t feel trapped, or crowded. He felt held. 

Later, there’d be time for proper apologies. For those apologies to be followed by action. For a proper introduction with Jim. For John to return the favour, as he dragged Paul in front of a (outwardly) disapproving Mimi. 

And as time passed John would buck up the courage to show his songs to Paul, and they would complete them. It would be magic, as though John had found an ancient key, and Paul was the lock. They’d create together, and love together, interlocked like puzzle pieces. The time John had almost lost him would fade, but never be forgotten.

It’d reappear as gratitude. A sunshine that would fill him every morning he woke up to find Paul in bed next to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank-you so much for reading this! I kind of lost confidence in it part way though, I feel like everything else I've written for this fandom is much stronger, but I still hope you liked this. Let me know! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you for reading! Any feedback means the world. 
> 
> The title comes from My Love by the Bird and the Bee, from the Big Sick soundtrack.
> 
> And thank-you so much to frogchorus for being my cheerleader. You rock! x


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